


Manhattan, etc

by Sassgaardian (LokiOfSassgaard)



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Plotbunnies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 14:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30056670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/Sassgaardian
Summary: MJN Air take their most eccentric client yet
Kudos: 9





	Manhattan, etc

**Author's Note:**

> Another half-started little thing I found. Again, may or may not ever come back to it, but wanted to upload it because it makes me laugh.

Martin had barely walked through the door of the portacabin when Carolyn tossed a slightly thicker than usual flight detail at him. Barely catching it, he frowned at it momentarily, wondering when they started to get clients, and when those clients began booking a month in advance. This mild confusion was quickly washed away, however, by an even heavier confusion when he came to the itinerary.

"Carolyn, is this some sort of new practical joke that's funny only to you?" he asked. "Because I don't get it."

"That's our latest client," Carolyn told him simply. "We're going to London to pick him up in an hour."

"All this?" Martin asked incredulously, still flipping through the details on more flights than MJN typically had in a month. "Who is he? A Bond villain?"

"No, some stuffy government type. Amounts to the same thing, really." Carolyn checked her watch, silently counting down the time until Douglas was officially late.

"I think he's in the CIA," Arthur offered from a spot on the floor, where he was busy trying to build a house out of spaghetti noodles. It wasn't going very well, since the noodles were from a tin, and covered in an unnaturally orange marinara sauce.

"Arthur, don't be ridiculous," Carolyn chided.

"MI6?" Arthur tried.

"No," Carolyn said, more forcefully. "He's the minister for health and safety. Apparently."

Martin frowned again. "You're joking?" he asked. "What's the minister for health and safety have to do that requires him to go to Manhattan, Seoul, Minsk, Tokyo, Abu Dhabi, Los Angeles, and Sydney? Hang on, Sydney to London. Carolyn, we can't do that."

"Can't do what?" Douglas asked as he wandered into the portacabin, almost on time for once.

"Why can't you?" asked Carolyn, incredulity dripping from her voice. "Has there been a towering great wall built between the two that prevents aeroplanes from flying over it?"

Martin sighed. "No, it's twenty two hours between Sydney and London. Los Angeles to Sydney is a stretch enough, at seventeen, but regulation states—"

"Martin, I know what regulation states, and frankly right now, I do not care," Carolyn said. "This man is paying us a lot of money to fly him all across the planet this week, and you will do it, and you're going to do it."

"But we can't do it," Martin insisted. "Twenty two hours!"

"As much as I do hate to admit it, sir has got a point," Douglas said, as though the very words left a bad taste in his mouth.

Martin would have glared at Douglas for mocking him again, but the fact that the first officer was agreeing with him was enough to keep his mouth shut.

"Shut up, Douglas. This is the trip that very well might put MJN back in the black," Carolyn told him. "I don't care how, but you will complete every leg of it. Take turns sleeping, if you have to. You sleep during the first half of the flight, and let Martin sleep during the second half."

"But I wanted to take the second half off," Douglas wined facetiously.

Carolyn glared at the pair of them. "Fine," she said. "Draw lots. Set up a rota. Take Noel out of the cupboard, if you have to."

Arthur's face brightened immediately. "I get to fly Gertie on this trip? Oh, goody!" he asked excitedly.

"No!" the other three shouted in chorus.

***

"Oh, is that him!?" Arthur sat up straight as he pressed his nose against one of the portholes, peering at a conspicuously large black car in the near distance.

"Arthur, you've asked that question sixteen times already," Douglas drawled. "And since it's still another two hours until our scheduled take off, I'm going to go out on a limb and say 'no'." He settled into his seat, getting ready to take a nap. "Why on Earth did Carolyn send us out here so early, anyway?"

"Time zones?" offered Arthur. "Cause, you know. The time changes when you cross over them. Like at Christmas!"

Both pilots rolled their eyes at him.

Curious, Martin leaned over from the game of Cluedo that was being played by the three of them. Douglas was about two moves away from getting bored and announcing the solution he'd worked out a half hour earlier, like always, but neither Martin nor Arthur seemed to care. They were having fun.

"No, I think it is him this time," Martin said. "Someone's just got out. Does he know he can't drive his car out here?"

He jumped up, leaving Douglas and Arthur (well, Arthur, really; Douglas never helped) to clean up the game and rushed out to the tarmac with the intent of telling the man that he couldn't park his car so close to the terminal, let alone drive it that far to begin with.

"Excuse me," he called as he approached the man in the impossibly crisp, black suit. "Your car. You, er, you can't…"

The man looked at him from behind dark sunglasses. "Captain Crieff?" he asked.

Martin faltered slightly. "Er. I mean, yes. I'm the captain. I'm Captain Crieff."

"Good. I need all of your crew off the plane at once." He kept walking, leaving Martin to have to rush to catch back up with him.

"There's nothing wrong with the plane," he insisted.

"I still need to perform the pre-flight checks," the suspicious man in the suspicious suit said.

Martin's face fell. "I can assure you that the pre-flight checks will be carried out to the letter, as they are before every flight. I see to it, myself."

The man paused in his step just long enough to flash Martin a suspicious smile. "Good," he said. "I'm sure Mr Holmes will appreciate knowing that, but I still have to perform my checks, sir."

With the words 'member of parliament' suddenly springing into Martin's mind, he jumped slightly.

"Right!" he said. "I'll just go clear the cabin!" He rushed off to the jet, taking the small flight of stairs two at a time.

"It's him," Martin declared. "They have some, er, checks they need to complete, and they want us off the plane."

"I'm surprised you didn't tell him that you'd handle the checks on your own, and to the highest standards," Douglas said, taking his time in getting up.

"I did," Martin said. "These are different checks. Apparently. Government official, and all that."

Arthur's eyes grew wide. "They probably want to check Gertie for bombs! Oh, boy! Can I watch?"

Ignoring the way Douglas and Arthur both sighed and rolled their eyes, Arthur bounded off the plane and onto the tarmac. It only took a few seconds for them to realise what hell had just been pot entially released for the company, and perhaps the entirety of London City Airport, before Martin and Douglas both rushed off the plane after their wayward steward. Back out on the tarmac, the man with the suspicious everything handed them each folders which Martin was quite certain he hadn't been holding earlier.

"This may take a while, so familiarise yourself with these," he said, handing each of them a folder. "Where's Mrs Knapp-Shappey?"

"Ooh! I know! Can I go get her?" Arthur asked excitedly.

The suspicious man handed Arthur the last of the four folders. "Knock yourself out," he said.

Arthur squealed lightly before rushing off to the terminal. The suspicious man shook his head slightly before walking to the plane, leaving Martin and Douglas standing on the tarmac. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Douglas shift slightly.

"You're not nervous about something, are you?" asked Martin in a grotesque parody of casualness.

"Oh, no. Not at all," Douglas replied, actually managing to sound casual. "I'm certain we got all of those tins of rotted fish off the plane."

"Mmm. Yes," Martin agreed distantly, reading over the contents of the folder he'd been handed. "Besides, I'm quite certain that's not even what he's checking the plane for. This Mr Holmes is a government official after all."

"Yes, of health and bloody safety," Douglas volleyed back, opening his own folder. "Who'd want to assassina—Oh, right. I see what you mean."

Martin chuffed twice – first at Douglas' quip, and then at the contents of his folder. "We've had some difficult passengers in the past, but this guy is ridiculous. 'Crew must only address Mr Holmes as Mr Holmes. Captain Crieff must only address his assistant as Olivia.' What does that even mean?"

Douglas frowned and finally opened the folder he'd been handed. "I'm supposed to call her Viola. Now, why do they want us to do that, I wonder?"

"Oh, god." Martin paled slightly.

"Oh, god, what?" asked Douglas hesitantly.

"I've just had the very disconcerting thought that Arthur might have been on to something."

He and Douglas exchanged two very worried glances.

"Nah!" they both said at once, dismissing the idea entirely.

***

It was nearly 90 minutes later when the man finally emerged from the jet. Martin was only halfway through the folder he'd been given, trying to make sure the other three also understood what it said since none of them seemed to be interested—evidenced in Carolyn trying to figure out the game of Tetris she'd just discovered her phone had come with, and Douglas and Arthur playing Scissors Rock Paper.

"Ha! Paper wraps rock! I win!" Arthur exclaimed excitedly.

"Wrong," Douglas said as he began wiggling his fingers. "I threw fire. Fire burns paper."

Arthur gave Douglas 50p and they played again, Arthur throwing 'fire' this time, and Douglas throwing something that resembled rock.

"Fire… beats rock, because…" Arthur tried.

"Wrong. Rain cloud," Douglas said. "It puts out the fire."

"Ah! Yes, I see, now!" Arthur said excitedly. "Gee, Douglas. You're really good at this!"

"Yes, I am," Douglas said boredly. He held out his hand for his payment.

Before they could play another round, the human sniffer dog returned to the group, saying something into one of his cuffs. The car, which had been waiting quietly in the distance, slowly made its way across the tarmac. It pulled to a stop just a few meters from the plane and the driver stepped out to open the door. A woman stepped out of the back of the car first, her fingers tapping wildly at a BlackBerry, followed by the man who had financed what was certain to be a very hellish and tiresome ten days of criss-crossing the globe.

Mycroft Holmes seemed to be paying more attention to the umbrella he carried with him, despite the skies being perfectly clear, and hardly seemed to even notice where he was.

"Thank you, Berkley," he said to the driver as the man shut the door and moved to retrieve several small suitcases from the boot.

"So," Douglas drawled, looking between Mycroft and his assistant. "Which one of you is Health, and which is Safety?"

Mycroft ignored his remark, instead studying Martin's face. When Arthur seemed to think that maybe Mycroft just hadn't heard, and started to repeat the question, Douglas punched him in the arm with just enough force to shut him up.

"Hmm. Yes, that is rather interesting, indeed," Mycroft said, as though he were deep in a conversation that only he could hear. "Captain Crieff, could you be so kind as to remove your hat?"

That two people in a row had correctly guessed Martin captain was start ling enough, but that one of them should ask him to remove his cap had him tripping over his own tongue.

"Remove my—why—my cap—why remove it? Why? Why? It's—why?"

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Eloquent as always, sir," he said to Martin.

Mycroft only smiled, well-practised but very effective. "Just a matter of personal curiosity," he said smoothly. "Now, if you please?"

Martin stalled for just a moment longer before removing his cap, not at all liking the way Mycroft frowned at him. He studied Martin, taking in every detail and cataloguing them in a way that made him feel as though he were about to be sold off for parts.

"Rather more ginger, wouldn't you say, dear?" asked Mycroft, turning toward his assistant.

She didn't even look up from her BlackBerry. "Yes, sir. I told you he would be."

Mycroft smiled oddly at this before turning back to Martin. "Captain, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you remain on the flight deck at all times. If any information needs to be exchanged, it will be done so with your first officer."

Martin whimpered lightly, ignoring the smug look on Douglas' face. "But I'm the captain," he protested.

Mycroft just held his smile, which was making Martin feel more and more uncomfortable by the second. "Yes," he agreed. "And I'm sure as the captain, you have certain duties that should be tended to right now."

"But—" Martin noticed that he was already being ignored, and turned to wander back to the plane to perform his own pre-flight checks.

"That's him told," Douglas said smugly.

Mycroft turned his gaze to Douglas, shifting it only slightly when the first officer didn't back down. "Indeed," he agreed. He turned his completely genial smile to Carolyn. "Mrs Knapp-Shappey, is this your only flight crew?"

"Oh, I assure you, sure, Arthur's capacity on the flight is simply to make sure the microwave door stays closed," she said, casting her son a warning glance. "I will be acting as flight crew on this trip."

"You?" asked Mycroft. "My good woman, I simply cannot have that."

"You can't?" asked Carolyn defensively. "Why can't you?"

"I simply can't imagine how you'd run your company while at thirty-thousand feet, and while serving drinks," Mycroft explained. "My driver will be happy to return you to Fitton where I'm certain the added time away from your crew will be most beneficial to working out your quarterly budget."

Carolyn blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" she asked. "Was that a threat? I don't respond to threats."

Arthur shook his head. "Well, you do, mum," he argued. "Just the other week, when that one bloke threatened to sue, you—"

"That's quite enough, Arthur!" Carolyn cut in.

"No, not a threat," Mycroft insisted. "What ever would make you dream such a thing?"

He smiled again and motioned for his driver to fetch Carolyn's luggage. "It's a long drive back to Fitton, Berkley," he told the man. "You might as well stop off for a meal on your way."

"Yes, sir," the man said.

With a nod toward his assistant, Mycroft ignored anything else Carolyn had to argue about and boarded the plane.

***

"Post take-off checks complete," Martin said as he settled into his seat.

"Queensland," Douglas said.

Martin considered that for a moment. "Oh, yes. Very good… Zimbabwe."

"Very well done," Douglas praised with only the slightest hint of disdain. "What's that one, exactly?"

"Twenty-six, I believe," Martin supplied. "I might have miscounted, but it should still count, which makes it three-two."

He was pleased with himself for being ahead of Douglas in trying to come up with the most places that would score at least twenty on a single-letter score in Scrabble. So pleased, in fact, that he had very nearly forgotten about the horrible man and his horrible assistant in the cabin. That was, of course, until Arthur popped cheerily onto the flight deck.

"Hey, Skip. Douglas," he said, reading the novella-sized folder he'd been given. "Do you want your meals served now, or should I wait a bit?"

"Now?" asked Martin incredulously. "Arthur, we've only just taken off. Why would you be serving meals now?"

"Well, because it says in this thing here, that the nice man with the sunglasses gave me, 'meals are to be served precisely at 8am, 1pm, and 6pm gumt'."

Martin and Douglas both exchanged a matching set of very confused looks.

"Do you want to take this one?" asked Martin tiredly.

"Oh, sure. Why not?" Douglas asked, his voice full of false cheer. "Arthur, 'gumt'?"

"Yeah, that's wh at it says in here. See?"

Arthur turned the folder so Douglas could read it, and pointed at the word in question. When Douglas read the word, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Arthur, that's GMT. Greenwich Mean Time," Douglas explained. "The time your watch is conveniently set to."

"Oh!" Arthur said excitedly. "That is convenient!"

Douglas took Arthur's folder from him, realising that the instructions had been an entirely different set from the ones he and Martin had been given. This was, of course, assuming that his and Martin's were identical, save the name of his PA. Now that he thought about it, Douglas suspected they might have been very different indeed.

"Good lord," he said, thumbing through the pages. "I've seen priceless Chinese vases that required less delicate handling than this man. Just listen to this: 'Do not serve Mr Holmes more than one alcoholic beverage per six hours of flight, no matter how politely he may ask. Do not serve Mr Holmes any selection of puddings or sweets, no matter how badly he may beg. For no reason at all should Mr Holmes be permitted into the galley during flight, no matter how much money he may offer you.' Arthur, I think you'd better serve the man his lunch."

"Right-o, Douglas!" Arthur chirped before practically bouncing off of the flight deck.

"You know, I was thinking that this was some sort of elaborate cover for a surprise Health and Safety inspection, but now I'm beginning to very strongly suspect that this is just a very expensive wind-up," Martin said. "Who comes with care instructions?"

Douglas continued to flip through the folder. "The minister for health and safety, apparently," he pointed out.

"It's a cover," Martin said. "It has to be."

"May be, but I'm sure some of this does have an honest reason," Douglas said. "It can't all be part of the cover."

"Why can't it?" asked Martin curiously.

"Because no one could possibly make all this up."

***

"Hello, sir and madam," Arthur said as he served up the meals to the passengers. "Is there anything else with which myself may be able to assist yourselves?"

Mycroft blinked up at him with the sort of facial expression typically reserved for trying to work out advanced calculus in his head. "I may be able to assist you," he corrected.

"No, you just sit tight," Arthur chirped. "As steward of the aircraft, it's my duty to do the assisting." He picked back up his folder and read over a paragraph, mumbling the words aloud to himself. "Would yourselves care for anything to drink?"

"Ginger ale," Mycroft's assistant said quickly.

"All right!" Arthur wrote it down in a small notebook. "And for you, sir?"

"Ginger ale," the woman repeated.

Mycroft tilted his head downward at her. "Now, dear. Really."

"He'll have ginger ale," his assistant repeated before waving Arthur off.

When Arthur returned with two rather small glasses of ginger ale, it was to find both Mycroft and his assistant both on their phones, merrily tapping away at the keys as though they weren't at all in defiance of any aviation laws at all.

"Er, I'm afraid myself is going to have to ask yourselves to kindly position your phones to the off setting for the duration of the flight, please," he said.

Mycroft looked up at him, smiled, and took the ginger ale from him.

"I'm sorry, is there a problem?" he asked.

"Only if your phones aren't set to aeroplane mode," Arthur explained. "Are they?"

Mycroft looked down at his phone and frowned. "No, I'm afraid they aren't." With an overly played-out sigh, he powered his down.

"Sir, you know it doesn't matter," his assistant said, not looking up from her BlackBerry.

Mycroft gave her a hard look. "Dear, humour the boy. His mother does own the company."

His assistant rolled her eyes just as dramatically as Mycroft had sighed, and powered down her phone. "I'm not flying without wifi," she said. "I can't get any work done like this."

"Oh, you never said before," Arthur said cheerily. "Are you Health, or Safety?"

Both of them looked up at Arthur wearing identical 'doing advanced calculus in their heads' expressions.

"I'm Health and Safety," the woman said. "Normally, he's just faffing about."

She smiled and Mycroft laughed, leaving Arthur completely confused.

***

"Reykjavík," Martin said as he stood up to stretch his legs.

Douglas frowned. "What's that worth?" he asked.

"I don't know. I can't spell it, can you?" asked Martin. "Must be worth enough, because it's got a V and two K's in. At least, I think they're both K's. And there must be a Y in there somewhere."

"All right, you can have that one," Douglas said. "You've clearly put a lot of thought into it."

"I have," Martin agreed. He leaned against the back of his seat in an attempt to appear casual, but it was a bit too low for properly leaning, and he nearly fell. He opted instead to lean against the locker where they kept Noel and the axe.

"Zzyzx," Douglas said.

"Zzyzx? That's not a place," Martin protested. "That's the sound a dog makes when it's choking on a wasp. A very large wasp."

"It is a place," Douglas insisted. "The last place on Earth, actually."

"Spell it."

Douglas did. "It's in the desert somewhere. Nevada, I think. Type it into a search engine, and you'll get all sorts of photos of people standing next to the sign on the side of the motorway."

Martin considered this and frowned. "How do you know about it, then?" he asked.

"Wikipedia," Douglas responded simply. "You go there looking up some international law or other, and five hours later, you find yourself reading an article about some sort of fuzzy lobster."

"Lobsters are not fuzzy," Martin argued, convinced that Douglas was having him on in every possible way.

"Some are. I saw it on the internet, so it must be true."

"Hang on," Martin said. "Didn't you just the other week tell Arthur that he couldn't believe everything he saw on the internet?"

This conversation had completely slipped from his control, and he wasn't even going to make an attempt to get it back at this point.

"Because we all know that the world is going to end on October the first of this year because we're all going to be eaten by a mutant space goat," Douglas drawled. "I don't know about you, but I strongly doubt the credibility of that particular story."

The cabin door burst open, smashing into Martin.

"Oh, sorry, Skip," Arthur said. "Didn't see you there."

Martin rubbed his elbow gingerly. "No, I don't imagine you did, unless you've suddenly developed X-ray vision," he said. "What's got you so worked up anyway?"

"Oh, it's Mr Holmes and… uh…" Arthur trailed off.

"Viola," Douglas said, over top of Martin saying, "Olivia."

Arthur blinked. "Oliviola?" he asked. "Livioli? Ravioli!"

Martin sighed. "No, Arthur. Where're your instructions? We all have different names for her, I think." He stretched his back so that it cracked loudly before clambering back into his seat.

"Oh! Right!" He stepped back to the galley to fetch it, flipping through the pages as he returned to the flight deck. "Maria," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "That's nothing like Ravioli."

"She isn't a pasta, Arthur, she's a person," Douglas said tiredly. "Call her Maria, like it says on that page."

"Oh, I get it. It's like a secret code," Arthur said. "Like how they do in the spy films, to identify people they've never actually seen before."

"Except she has seen you before," Martin pointed out. "I'm telling you, it's a wind-up. Someone is playing a very expensive practical joke on us."

"Yeah, and not a very nice one, either," Arthur said. "They keep complaining about everything. Mr Holmes wants a sofa, and Oli—Maria wants wifi, and neither of them will keep their phones off."

"They shouldn't even be able to get any reception up here," Martin said. "They still shouldn't have their phones on, though. Are they on now?"

"Yeah, that's why I came back here," Arthur said. "I don't know what to tell them. I tried Mum's way, but Olimaria—Viola. No. Whatever her name is. She's scary."

Martin sighed and started to get back up. "I'll go have a word with them about it," he said, but was stopped by Douglas' hand on his arm.

"I think I'd better handle this," Douglas said.

"I'm the captain. It's my job," Martin protested.

"And that man, who is paying us a lot of money, has requested that the captain stay on the flight deck," Douglas pointed out. "Stay here and be the captain, and I'll be the first officer for once."

"Fine." Martin slumped into his seat, watching as Douglas climbed out of his seat and left the flight deck with Arthur.

***

"Post-landing checks complete," Martin said tiredly, glad to be done with the flight, but dreading the rest of the itinerary. "So, what condemned building has Carolyn put us in tonight?"

"I'm rather pleased to say that she hasn't," Douglas said, sounding very pleased indeed. "According to the care instructions sent with Mr Holmes, we're going to be staying at the Plaza. For security reasons, apparently."

"I hope he's paying for it. Carolyn may actually flay us both if she winds up with the bill," Martin pointed out.

Martin leaned back into his seat and picked up his own folder to go through as Douglas got up and moved toward the flight deck door.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked of the captain.

"No," Martin said with a sigh. "I think I'll stay here until I know it's safe. Wouldn't want to upset Mr Holmes, after all."

"Oh, come on, Martin. Don't take it so personally," Douglas said.

"Don't take it personally?" asked Martin. "How else am I meant to take it? The man took one look at me and decided that he didn't want to see my face for the entire trip. Tell me how that isn't personal."

"Well, it is rather personal," Douglas agreed. "But you shouldn't take it that way."

Martin snorted and turned his attention back to the folder, not actually reading it as much as he just used it to signal that he was done with this conversation. After a few moments, Douglas gave up and left the flight deck, surprised to find Mycroft and his assistant still standing on the tarmac.

"Reykjavík is worth twenty-nine points, by the way," Mycroft said easily, not looking up from the screen on his phone. "And Zzyzx is in Southern California; not Nevada." He turned to smile at his assistant, and the two of them walked off to a waiting car.

So stunned at Mycroft's casual fact-correcting was Douglas that he didn't even notice the man approach him.

"Sir, whenever you and the rest of the crew are ready, the car's waiting," the man said.

Douglas shook his head slightly, finding himself rather paranoid all of a sudden. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "I'll just… fetch Martin and Arthur, shall I?"


End file.
